The Lesson of Lemons
when life hands you lemons, make lemon pound cake
[please enjoy this old post from two plus years ago while i attempt to recover from the loss of my dog. i thought this one was appropriate for this time in my life]
My lemon pound cake sits on the kitchen table, loosely wrapped in an envelope of aluminum foil.
I bake the cake after spending the most of the day thinking about the phrase “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” and, feeling sorry for myself about recent events, cursing life for its stupid lemons.
At some point I drag myself out of the house and drive to the store, a little Italian supermarket with a produce aisle so narrow only one person can linger over avocados at a time.
The lemons are next to the avocados. There’s a middle aged woman in a Beach Boys t-shirt, capri pants and high heels fondling the avocados, looking for that elusive one that is ripe enough to take home, but not so ripe that it would be spoiled by the time she got it out of the bag. I wait. I am on a mission and I have all the time in the world.
My husband is gone, three weeks gone. He’s living in an apartment five miles from me. I feel his absence more than I ever felt his presence. I had envisioned a full life together, the embodiment of “til death do us part.” I had a picture in my mind of us old, retired, sitting on our porch in rocking chairs reminiscing about our years together. Turns out I only got fourteen of those years and I’m reminiscing alone.
Sometimes life throws lemons at you, but sometimes you pick those lemons yourself, fill your own basket. You know you’re doing it. You’re acutely aware of how full the basket is becoming. But stopping is hard. It involves the conflict of two desires; the desire to chop down the lemon tree and the desire to hoard all the lemons. You know the hoarding is unhealthy, but sometimes it’s easier than the work it would take to chop that tree down, or facing the truth that the tree has to go.
The lady is done assessing the avocados. I stand in front of the lemons for a moment, thinking about what I’m doing. It’s an act of defiance against myself, a reminder of the things we’ve willingly brought into our lives.
Make lemonade.
I don’t particularly care for lemonade. It’s always either too tart or too sweet. I like things middle of the road. I operate at an even keel.
I pick up a lemon. I size it up, not really knowing what I’m looking for in one. It passes my hasty inspection and I put it in a plastic bag. I pick out four more lemons, caressing each one, rolling it around in my hand, wondering if it’s going to produce the right amount of juice I need.
I take out my phone and look up recipes for lemon pound cake. If I’m going to make something out of these lemons, it’s going to be something I like, something I want. I wander the tiny aisles, collecting the rest of the ingredients.
I get in the car with my lemons and supplies. I check my phone and there’s a text from him. He wants to pick up a couple of things he left behind, could I please leave them outside for him so he doesn’t have to come in. I want to talk, I want to respond with anything other than the “ok” I immediately give him. I want to see him, have a conversation with him about everything and nothing. I stare at the text, trying to read it into it, catch a glimpse of hope, but there’s nothing there.
I don’t cry, even though I want to. I don’t know what good it will do. I drive home, keenly aware of the lemons in the grocery bag on the passenger seat of my car.
I could tell you a lot of things about my husband. I could tell you that he was always good to me, that he made me laugh every single day, that for a while his world revolved around making me happy. I could also tell you about his alcoholism, how he went from ten years sober to succumbing to the desire to drink. To tell you about that would also be to tell you things about me. It would be tell you about the lemons we cultivated along the way.
I picked those lemons with him. I helped fill the basket. I didn’t make any attempts to chop the tree down. It was easier not to.
I don’t particularly enjoy baking. I like cooking instead, where I can free flow with directions and change up recipes and not measure everything precisely. Baking requires a steadfast commitment to the recipe, and I always fuck it up in one way or another. But here, with the lemon pound cake, I do follow the directions precisely, getting lost in the process, especially when it comes to grating the lemon for zest. I probably make more zest than necessary, because the act of grating is immensely satisfying.
When the cake is done and cooled, I cut a small slice. I didn’t make the cake to eat it. I made it to make it. I made it to go through the process of turning the lemons I picked into something else. It tastes good. I did a pretty good job for someone who isn’t a baker. But it leaves a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
I check my phone, hoping for another text. There’s none there. I pull up my voicemail, where I have old messages from him saved and wonder if I should listen to one of them, just to hear his voice. I don’t know when I’ll talk to him again. It could be days, maybe a week, maybe more until we have something necessary to say to each other. I put my phone away, make a cup of tea and eat another piece of lemon pound cake. Maybe it will give me the strength I need to chop down a tree.
This is beautiful. Thank you for writing it. If it helps any, know that it's what I needed to read this morning. Condolences on your losses, and best wishes for making cakes of them. Or a piccata.